


We Always Were

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Retirementlock, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1948548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows the feeling when it hits him, although he's never felt it before. At first, he almost doesn't recognize it for what it is. It's a word in the back of his mind, and then on the tip of his tongue. Then, he remembers. He remembers soldiers with infections that took them slowly enough to have a last conversation, his patients from the clinic in London that were in hospice care, a relative or two that were taken by cancer. John is dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Always Were

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cee5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cee5/gifts).



> This work was inspired by a head-cannon from TheAdventuresofHolmesandWatson (Cee5 on AO3) that was sent to Painlock, on tumblr. I couldn't help myself. It was just too good to pass up, but I hope it's not too terribly sad. 
> 
> The tumblr post read:  
> Imagine: Mary dies. John is lonely and comes back to 221B. Sherlock is in love but won't do anything because he respects John's pain. John mourns Mary and slowly falls in love with Sherlock and accepts that fact. But he won't make a move. Sherlock is more and more in love with John everyday but still doesn't have the courage to take a step. And they hover there, forever afraid. And one day, already old, John grabs Sherlock's hand and says: we could have been so happy. And Sherlock says: we were.

John knows the feeling when it hits him, although he's never felt it before. At first, he almost doesn't recognize it for what it is. It's a word in the back of his mind, and then on the tip of his tongue. Then, he remembers. He remembers soldiers with infections that took them slowly enough to have a last conversation, his patients from the clinic in London that were in hospice care, a relative or two that were taken by cancer. John is dying. 

It isn't a surprise, really. He's 93, and it was bound to happen to one of them sooner or later. For John, apparently, it's the former. They've lived in a cottage in Sussex for years, now. Sherlock, no longer able to run through the streets of London, chasing murderers, has taken to apiculture. John spends his time reading by the fire, watching crap telly, and trying to convince Sherlock to eat and sleep. When they officially retired, John had the case narratives from his blog compiled into a book. It shocked both of them when it ended up on bestseller lists across the globe. All in all, not much has changed. Sherlock is just as clever as always, they still enjoy their fair share biting comebacks and laughter, and John continues to be the stabilizing force in the hurricane that is Sherlock Holmes' life.

John can't help but smile, thinking back on the life he's shared with the best and wisest man he has ever known. He's been happy, truly unabashedly happy, for decades. After Mary, he'd had no interest in dating for a long time, and eventually, he simply didn't want to carve out room in his life for a relationship. Being the best friend and blogger of the world's only consulting detective was a bit more than a full-time job, it seemed, and he had no problem with that. After everything they'd been through, Sherlock was his other half, although John knew the detective would balk at his use of such a cliche colloquialism.

None of their colleagues or friends gave up on the two becoming a couple, but they were never together in the traditional sense. Sherlock clearly wanted to keep things the way they were- uncomplicated by the sentiment of confessed love. There was a brief smattering of moments, throughout their years, where they could have become something more. A hand grabbed during a particularly frightening moment in a case, a chaste kiss to the forehead when one of them nearly died _again_ , heads leaning on each other's shoulders while sitting on the sofa, whispered offers to hold the other close after nightmares. John would have been happy, being something more, maybe getting married, but he was satisfied with the moments of closeness and domesticity that Sherlock gave him. He had Sherlock, in Sherlock's own unique way, and that was enough for him.

John feels the aches in his bones and pain in his shoulder, but it's more distant than usual, as if his body is no longer alarmed by the pain, as if it knows there will be relief soon. His resting heart rate has been growing slower over the past few days, and he knows why, now. He feels like his thoughts are more focused and sharp than they've been in decades, but at the same time, he's slowing down. He's clear, but foggy. Happy, but melancholy.

He debates whether he will tell Sherlock, when he comes inside for dinner. Sherlock knows John is old enough that he can't have much time left, John reasons. _He probably figured it out on Monday, actually,_ John thinks. On Monday, when John felt a chest pain so severe, he dropped his tea and shattered his favorite mug. Sherlock's insisted on monitoring John's pulse since then, which is how John knows that his average resting heart rate has dropped from 75 beats a minute to 55 in the past four days. 

John closes his eyes, sighs, and leans his head against the back of his chair. _Of course Sherlock already knows. At least I won't have to break it to him,_ John thinks. He's relieved, to be honest. Thankful, again, for the beautiful mind of the man he loves most.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he opens his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling beside his chair, fingers pressing down on his radial pulse point, eyes glassy with restrained tears. He might not have Sherlock's deduction skills, but he can read it all over the man's face that he didn't expect John to open his eyes. John raises a hand to Sherlock's cheek, cupping the side of his face lightly.

"Hey now, can't get rid of me that easy," John says, a hit of a chuckle underneath the words.

Sherlock moves his hand from John's wrist to his hand, lacing their fingers together. John watches as Sherlock looks down, blinks, and swallows heavily, composing himself. He takes a deep breath before he speaks.

"Your pulse is 47, and you hand't taken a breath in 23 seconds. Your sats are low, probably, because your nail-beds and lips are a bit cyanotic. We can go to the hospital, if you want, John."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand, understanding that this is his way of telling John that he knows it's almost time. He shakes his head.

"No, 'Lock. I think I'd like to stay here, with you."

Sherlock bites his lower lip, and nods. He proffers an arm to John, to help him up.

"I think, maybe you'll be more comfortable in bed?"

John nods, using Sherlock's arm as leverage to hoist himself up from the chair. He knows he's dying, knows that there isn't enough oxygen getting to his brain and his muscles, but he's still surprised when his knees start to give out beneath him. Sherlock scoops John up in his arms as if he isn't a day older than twenty, and carries John to his bed without a word. Together, they tuck John into the bed and pull up the duvet around him. 

Sherlock stands awkwardly beside John's bed, halfway between sitting down and backing away, as if he suddenly isn't sure if he's wanted. John untangles a shaking, chilly hand from the duvet and holds it out to his friend. Sherlock grabs it, as if it is a life preserver and he is adrift at sea. John tugs, pulling Sherlock gently into the bed with him, arranging Sherlock's arms around him, resting his head on the soft dip below his clavicle. 

"John," Sherlock says the name as if John is the only man in all of existence that has ever mattered. John nuzzles deeper into Sherlock's chest rather than responding with words. He's so cold, and Sherlock is so warm.  _What an interesting reversal of roles,_ he thinks, dimly. His thoughts are coming in fragments now, and he is so, so tired.

"John-" Sherlock says again, and there's tension in his voice now, as if he is barely holding back the emotions he always claimed he never had. "John, I love you." He tilts John's face up to his own and presses a soft, warm kiss over John's chilled lips. "I love you. Thank you for everything. You have been so wonderful to me, for so long. Thank you, John. I love you. I love you," he repeats, as if he can fit a lifetime of confessions into the few minutes they have left.

John rouses slightly, when he feels the kiss he'd wanted for so long but had convinced himself was never coming. 

"'Lock? We... You?" He closes his eyes briefly, wondering if he had miscalculated Sherlock's feelings somewhere along the way, suddenly unsure of what could have been. He would have reached up to brush the tears from Sherlock's cheeks, if he had the strength. As it was, he let them drip down from Sherlock's lashes onto his own face, as his fading mind wrestled with this new information. "We could have been so happy, 'Lock."

Sherlock smiles, making his tears run down through the crow's feet and laugh lines in his wrinkled skin. "Oh, John. We were. We always were." He tips his face down and rests his forehead against John's, their noses brushing, lips millimeters apart.

John understands, and Sherlock is so thankful that he found a man who is clever enough to read between his lines. Sherlock loved him, John had known that for many years, but saying it was his final gift. The kisses John had always wanted, the love he had never spoken of- this was Sherlock's way of telling him thank you, and goodbye. There was no need for awkward conversations or lover's quarrels, now. There was only time for raw, timeless love, given freely to him in his final moments.

John moved his head up, just slightly, to capture Sherlock's lips again. He was tired, and cold, and clumsy, but he was sure he'd never experienced a better kiss in all of his life.

"I love you too, 'Lock," John murmured, the words falling from his greying lips only audible to Sherlock because their faces were touching. 

"You rest now, John," Sherlock whispered, swallowing back his sobs as best he could. He tucked John back down onto his chest, holding him close and burying his face in the older man's hair. "You rest now. I love you. I love you, John. It's okay. I love you."

John's breathing slowed down to short gasps every twenty to thirty seconds, and then every forty. He was unconscious now, his brain not getting nearly enough oxygen to sustain him. Sherlock felt the drum of John's heart slow and stutter in his carotid artery, below his fingertips. Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, Sherlock wasn't sure, John's body gave up the fight and stilled. 

Sherlock sobbed into John's hair, clinging to his body, desperately holding on the remnants of the man who made his life worth living, the man who taught him how to love. When he was out of tears and energy, he realized the sun was rising, and he was nearly as cold as John, despite still sitting under the thick duvet. He was more fatigued than he had ever been in his life, he realized, despite his habit of staying awake for days on end in his youth.  _Maybe it's time for me, as well,_ he thought,  _maybe I've missed it, being so focused on John. Then again, elderly couples die within hours and days of each other quite frequently. Maybe this is why. Maybe my heart simply can't continue beating without him._

Sherlock nuzzled his face into John's hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

"I love you, John."

He closed his eyes.


End file.
